The Woman Who Dared Part 17

All help was vain, and drugs were powerless.

Paralysis had struck the heated brain, Driving from mortal hold the consciousness: It reappeared not in one outward sign, And before midnight life had left the clay.

VIII.

Meek and submissive as a little child Is Harriet now; she has no will but that The Church imposes as the will divine.

"Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death, Must all," said I, "be now conveyed to Linda."

"Let it be done," she cried, "before I sleep!"

And it was done to-night--securely done,-- I being Linda's representative.

To-morrow I must take her the good news.

IX.

After the storm, the rainbow, child of light!

Such the transition, as I pa.s.s to Linda!

I found her hard at work upon a picture.

With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news.

Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hide Her satisfaction at the tardy act Bringing the rest.i.tution of her own.

Three things she asked; one was that I would place At once a certain person in possession Of a large sum, not letting him find out From whom it came; another was to have This great change in her fortunes kept a secret As long as she might wish; the third and last Was that she might be privileged to wait On Harriet with a sister's loving care.

All which I promised readily should be, So far as my poor human will could order.

Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her scheme For others' welfare shall not wholly fail; That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficient To plant the _germ_ at least of what she planned."

X.

I've taken my last look of Harriet: She died in Linda's arms, and comforted With all the Church could give of heavenly hope.

Slowly and imperceptibly does Time Work out the dreadful problem of our sins!

Not often do we see it solved as here In plain results which he who runs may read.

Not always is the sinner's punishment Shown in this world. May the Eternal Mercy Cleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we mark Another's foulness, blind us to our own!

IX.

BESIDE THE LAKE.

The sun of August from a clear blue sky Shone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirred Mildly the woods encircling, that threw down A purple shadow on the liquid smoothness Gla.s.sing the eastern border, while the west Lay bared to light.

Wild, virgin nature all!

Except that here and there a partial clearing, Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents, Dented the ma.s.sive verdure, and revealed A little slope of bank, dotted with stumps And brown with slender aromatic leaves Shed from the pine, the hemlock, and the fir In layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.

Near one of these small openings where the breeze Crept resinous and cool from evergreens Behind them, while the sun blazed bright before,-- Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hue The whiteness of a s.p.a.cious tent contrasted, Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flag Flung out its crimson with protecting pride,-- Reclined a wife and husband, looking down Less on the glorious lake than on the glory That, through a gauzy veil, played round the head Of a reposing infant, golden-tressed, Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet, While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond: For there lay little Mary Merivale.

Boats on the lake showed that this group detached Were part of a well-chosen company.

Here children ran and frolicked on the beach; There an old man, rowed by two guides, stood up With rod and line and reel, while swiftly flew The reel, announcing that a vigorous trout Just then had seized the hook. Came the loud cry,-- "Look, Charles! Look, Linda! See me land him now!

Don't touch him with your scoop, men! I can fetch him,"-- In tones not unfamiliar to our ears.

And there, six boats swept by, from which the voices Of merry children and their elder friends-- Mothers and fathers, teachers, faded aunts, Dyspeptic uncles, wonderfully cured All by this tonic, Adirondack air-- Came musical and loud: a strange collection, Winnowed by Rachel (now the important queen Of all this sanitary revelry) From her acquaintance in the public schools; Whence her quick sympathies had carried her Straight to the overworked, the poor, the ailing, Among the families of her a.s.sociates, When Linda planned this happy enterprise Of a grand camping-out for one whole month.

The blind aunt and the grandmother, of course, High and important persons, Rachel's aids, Graced the occasion; for the ancient dame Had lived in such a region in her youth, And in all sylvan craft was proudly wise: Declaring that this taste of life would add Some ten years to her eighty-five, at least.

On went the boats, all large and safely manned, In compet.i.tion not too venturesome.

Then, from a rocky outlook on the hill, There came a gush of music from a band, Employed to cheer with timely melody This strange encampment in the wilderness.

Hark! Every voice is hushed as down the lake The breathing clarions accordant send The tune of "Love Not" to each eager ear!

The very infant, in its slumber, smiled As if a dream of some old paradise Had been awakened by the ravishment.

"Look at the child!" cried Linda; "mark that smile!

All heaven reflected in a dew-drop! See!"

"And all the world grasped in that little fist,-- At least as we esteem the world!" cried Charles.

"And yet," said Linda, "'tis a glorious world: See how those families enjoy themselves!"

"And who created all this happiness?"

The husband said,--"who, after G.o.d, but Linda?

Who spends her money, not in rearing piles Of cold and costly marble for her pride,-- Not in great banquets for the rich and gay Who need them not, and laugh at those who give,-- Where, at one feast, enough is spent to make All these poor people radiant for a month,-- But in exhilarations coming from Communicated joy and health and life,-- The happiness that's found in making happy."

"All selfishness!" cried Linda; "selfishness!

I seek my happiness, and others theirs; Only my tastes are different; more plebeian, Haply, they'd say; but, husband mine, reflect!

You, too, I fear, are lacking in refinement: Would this have been, had you not acquiesced In all these vulgar freaks, and found content, Like me, in giving pleasure to the needy?

And tell me--pa.s.sing to another point-- Where would have been the monarch of this joy, That little child,--that antepast of bliss Such as the angels taste,--had I recoiled From daring as I did, even when I knew He I most wished to win would think me bold?"

"Ah! little wife," cried Charles, "I've half a mind To tell you what I've never told you yet.

Yes, I _will_ tell you all, although it may End the complacent thought that Linda did it-- Did it by simply daring to propose!

Know, then, a constant track of you I kept, Even while I seemed to shun you. I could kneel Before your recollection in my heart, When you regarded me as shy and cold.

And, while by poverty held reticent, I saw, supreme among my hopes, but Linda!

Before we left the sea-side I had learnt, Through gossip of my worthy landlady, Where you would go, returning to New York.

I found your house; I pa.s.sed it more than once When, like a beacon, shone your study-lamp.

The very night before you called upon me To ask, would I take Rachel as my pupil, (How kind in you to patronize my school!) I sought an anodyne for my despair In watching for your shadow on the curtain.

"Discovery of that unexpected debt, Owed by my father, killed the last faint hope Which I had cherished; and our interview-- Your daring offer of this little hand-- But made me emulous to equal you In self-renouncing generosity; And so, I frankly told you what I told: That love and marriage were not in my lot.

"Ten days elapsed, and then from utter gloom I sprang to cheerful light. My father's partner, The man named Judd, who robbed us all one day, Had a compunctious interval, and sent A hundred thousand dollars back to us-- Why do you smile?"

"Go on. 'Tis worth a smile."

"That very day I cleared myself from debt; That very day I sued for Linda's hand; That very day she gave it willingly; And the next month beheld us two made one.

And so it would have been, if you, my dear, Had made no sign, and waited patiently.

But ah! what luck was mine! After two days, The news arrived that Linda was an heiress.

An heiress! Think of it; and I had said, Never, no, never would I wed an heiress!

But 'twas too late for scruples; I was married,-- Caught in the trap I always meant to shun!"

Then Linda, mischief in her smile, exclaimed: "O simple Charles! The innocent dear man!

Who doubts but woman ought to hold her tongue, And wait till he, the preordained, appear?

That hundred thousand dollars, you are sure, Was from your father's partner--was from Judd?"

"Of course it was,--from Judd, and no one else!

Who could have sent the money, if not Judd?

No doubt it came from Judd! My father said, 'Twas conscience-money, and restored by Judd, Who had become a deacon in the Church.

Why did you ask me whether I was sure The hundred thousand dollars came from Judd?

What are you smiling at, provoking Linda?"